


World Turning Circles

by saltstreets



Series: WIP AMNESTY [7]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Pre-Slash, failure to launch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: Bastian has yet to speak with his captain on the subject of his departure.





	World Turning Circles

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the subject matter this was probably originally from summer 2015? I've switched laptops since then and the timestamps are all messed up. Let’s just say it’s from a while ago and leave it at that.
> 
>  
> 
> [Title is from the most emo Police song, whoops](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mgSCKXSp9M)

 

This is a choice. This is his choice. It’s a sensible move, both for Bayern and himself, and he’s departing on good terms with his childhood club. Which is really all he can ask. Football has a long memory; and people will remember him at Bayern München. Things have only been getting tighter around the edges and he’s looking forward to some breathing room. He’s old enough that his move will be seen as an inevitable shame rather than as treachery. And no one can possibly accuse him of chasing silverware. It’s only minutes on the pitch he’s after, trying to eke as much as he can out of the years slowly spooling out until he has to hang up his boots.

He’s pleased with his decision, he’s supported by his club, he’s unlikely to be burned in effigy in the streets of Munich.

None of which explain why Bastian has yet to speak with his captain on the subject of his departure.

 

 

For all his very logical thought processes, Bastian is unable to give himself a satisfactory reason for why he hasn’t talked to Philipp since the official confirmation. He would be unable to give a reason of any kind, satisfactory or otherwise, to _anyone_ who might care to ask. There simply isn’t one.

Instead of a reason, there is a whole host of things that might explain the lack of communication, but they’re all too long and winding to really explain, and even if they could be condensed into neat little packages they all seem to point irritatingly in the other direction, prompting Bastian to go knocking on Philipp’s door, sit him down, and just _talk._

He doesn’t do it however, and instead lets his brain run itself in circles asking _why._

 

When Philipp tells Bastian he’s retiring from the national team, Bastian doesn’t press the issue. If Philipp had come to him asking advice as to whether he should retire or not, the answer would have been no, decisively no. But Philipp isn’t coming to him for advice, he’s coming to tell him a fact.

 

 

Philipp always tells him facts.

 

 

Philipp says, I’m still your captain at Bayern. So you still have to listen to me.

Bastian grins. Of course Fips. I wouldn’t dare dream of disregarding the immense power you hold over me.

Philipp swats at him. Shut up, he says. I might be smaller than you but I can still knock you out.

Smaller than me? Bastian raises an eyebrow as if the thought had never even occurred to him. No way, really? I hadn’t noticed.

Alright, that’s it. And Philipp takes a swing at him, Bastian easily dodges and things deteriorate from there.

 

 

Philipp doesn’t hand over the armband literally, but there’s a moment when Bastian is standing next to him about to go out onto the field for the ceremony, and he knows that this is the most intimate passing-of-the-torch that he’s going to get.

Philipp looks up at him, eyes as solemn as Bastian’s ever seen them. “I’m just glad,” he says, quietly, in that calm, assured way of his, “that I’m passing this thing to you with considerably more goodwill than when I got it.”

Bastian remembers Micha’s ruined ankle and angry bursts of static conversation between teammates where once there had been solidarity and confidence. He remembers everyone being swept up in that storm of ill-will. He remembers the club rivalries sliding in sideways where they had no right to be, and he remembers disappointment, _again._

He knows his thoughts must show clearly on his face because Philipp says, “Don’t let that happen under your watch, Schweinsteiger,” and steel enters his voice. “Or I _will_ come back and beat you over the head with your own boot.”

Bastian doesn’t doubt him for an instant. Nor does he doubt that Fips could most likely kill him and frame the whole thing as a tragic accident. “Don’t worry, Captain,” he says, trying to be both serious and earnest at the same time, “I don’t think we’ll have the same problem.” Other problems? Sure. But that was football. But Bastian had no intention of letting factionalism slip back in under the door as it once had.

“See that you don’t.” Philipp smiles at him and it’s so familiar that Bastian wants to grab at him and beg him to stay, as stupid and fruitless as it is. “...Captain.”

 

 

This is Philipp leaving. He makes it look easy. He makes it look like he doesn’t miss the late night phone calls and the tactical meetings that dragged on with arguing and strategising, or the horseplay in the dressing rooms or sitting next to each other on the bench or letting their hands brush every so often. Just every once in a while. A reminder, perhaps, or a question. Philipp makes it seem as though he’d always known the answer. All the answers.

 

 

Bastian just wishes he could have wrapped things up as nicely on his own end. Instead he lies awake at night and runs through every word exchanged and decision made, and asks himself _why._

 


End file.
